


Your Moment of Zen

by elegantanagram (Lir)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Masturbation in Shower, POV Second Person, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Love, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/elegantanagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk Strider enjoys marathon showers. He enjoys his epic ablutions like some people enjoy religion, in a zen relaxation way, and he enjoys that private time because it is the ideal space in which to fantasize about his best bro Jake English.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Moment of Zen

**Author's Note:**

> As these things go, this is pretty straight-up PWP with a side of angst. I ship Bro and Jake something awful already, but within the constraints of the story Bro's interest is as good as unrequited.
> 
> I will probably re-tag and tweak the summary once Bro's name is revealed, but the second person POV means I won't be revising the actual text. I secretly love writing porn in second person, okay.
> 
> Someone needs to take away my titling privileges because the Daily Show reference may or may not be a bit absurd.
> 
> ETA: Switched Dirk's name in the summary and the tags, figure this is all I really need to change.

You can feel the scalding water on the back of your neck, the vertebrae outlined sharply as you curve forward. Everything you see is a curtain of opaque steam, a barrier through which you can perceive the white tiles of your shower stall but which you know is imbued with the mystical property of separating you from the reality beyond your bathroom. The sound of the water drumming against the shower walls is a dull roar in your ears that keeps you from wondering if you're hearing the buzz of the pesterchum client on your shades receiving a message.

You enjoy epic showers because this pocket of space where you are warm and damp and clean is completely private. You imagine it might be like why some people meditate, a zen experience where you can just relax and chill out.

It isn't private any more.

Barricaded away from the rest of the world, you are trapped with your thoughts, and it has been such a long fucking time since your traitorous brain first decided to seal your best bro Jake English in there with you. You no longer know which option is more safe, when it is a grim certainty that you will not drive him from your mind. Do you live for the moment in the encompassing fantasy? Do you eschew the real Jake, the rough-and-tumble rogue with a love for weird shit like skulls and guns and crappy fucking movies for an ideal? Or do you remember that outside your moist bubble of want, the real Jake is probably trying to contact you for the upteenth time?

There is an appeal in the fiction, where you can press your forearm to the cool tile surface, forehead braced against it and muscles held tight, your other hand wrapping snugly around your cock and giving a slow, tight stroke. In this version, you can imagine that somewhere back in the steam, just a breath too far away to touch, is Jake, and that it is his hand leisurely jerking you off in a manner that is knowing and sure and impossibly intimate. If you delude yourself, it becomes a possibility that Jake might reciprocate all your overwhelming goddamn feelings. Then there is no need for shame, because no matter how guiltily you want him, he wants you too.

But there is a dishonesty there.

Recently, no matter how hard you try to think of Jake's gun-callused fingers, his hands that would be so capable because this is a physical pursuit and Jake is nothing if he is not the embodiment of idolization for immediate, physical masculinity, you cannot escape encroaching reality. You know that you are alone in a way that borders on the truly pathetic, touching yourself furtively to thoughts of your best friend because the possibility that he would ever do it himself is slim to none. Your dissatisfaction is frustrating, and you jerk harder and grit your teeth and bear down on your sorry erection in a way that almost hurts, but does not kill the arousal. It's perverse that you can't seem to get off any more, not like you used to, but the conditioned response to feeling warm steam and sluicing water is still for you to get hard before the last foaming suds slide off your chest beneath the spray.

You roll away from the wall, pressing your back to the slick tiles and letting the spray cascade down on you. Your hand curled around your cock grips loosely, your other hand impatiently swiping back your hair from your forehead. This isn't fucking working. You cannot maintain the fantasy where Jake follows you in here on a happy whim any longer, not when the inherent idealism burns the back of your throat like bile. Worse, the scenario you have been operating within is too sterile. You don't want him at a distance, touching you in a way that has gone bland, stale. You need a new kind of immediacy.

The new scenario comes up around you like the rising steam, your eyes drifting shut, your mind's eye painting Jake into the tiny cubicle just in front of you. In your head you tease him, still with that eloquence that you adhere to even under fire, obliquely challenging his masculinity under the assumption that therein lies his pride. What you want is for him to touch you, and in this imagining his fumbling toward fisticuffs at least gets his hands on your chest. You can almost feel the slide of fingers against your skin, tangibly, and you suppose you would pull him forward by the hips. If your hands linger on his ass after tugging him against you, it's only a bit of appreciation for his truly premium behind.

In the fantasy, your hand wraps around both of your cocks and the needy motion of your hips and the pumping of your fist draws half-startled gasps from both of your lips. In reality, your fingers are grasping only your own length, your grip going tight and quick and the pressure building in that delicious way you have missed. The warmth of your shower simulates the proximity of Jake's body, your free hand burying itself in your own hair and your head lowering because if this were real you would be gripping Jake by the back of his neck and kissing him as hard as you could.

It helps to think about the solid weight of his body pressed against yours, to imagine the supple give to his ass when you grab him, yanking him close and wanting to squeeze hard enough to leave fingermarks. Your breathing is ragged and hoarse, your head tipping back and the hand not gripping your cock dropping to press flat against the tile. And there is something about allowing your own hands to touch, even in the fantasy. You can pretend that you're also bringing Jake off with swift, firm strokes, but this time you are doing everything yourself. When you come it is almost a surprise, like you were expecting Jake to get there first despite the impossibility of that outcome.

You slump sideways against the back wall of the shower cubicle, letting the still-pouring water wash you clean without any overt effort on your part. The water is still hot, prolonged exposure starting to turn all of your skin a warm, glowing pink. You stay in a while longer, needing to reach that point of nirvana where you're euphoric from orgasm and only further sated by that pleasant shower glow you pick up.

This time, when you emerge into the sterility of your bathroom, lean against the sink, and swipe your glasses off the rim, your subjugated shame does not immediately kick in at the thought of wanting to talk to Jake.


End file.
